


The Case of Mary Morstan

by mysteriousmice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteriousmice/pseuds/mysteriousmice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows she's up to something. Question is... what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The cab ride to the Morstan residence was bumpy, cold, and treacherous, but once the cab finally pulled over (a block away, just in case), Sherlock felt himself heat up with excitement—the sort of tense, shaky excitement that was tied closely to fear (epinephrine, C9H13NO3) that he rarely felt.  
But tonight he was taking a risk. Tonight was only the second time he had returned to London after the fall.  
It had been a year, and Molly had told him that John was engaged to Mary Elizabeth Morstan, the sister-in-law of the CEO of a major weapon manufacturer. Sherlock had been unable to find out much else about her. He couldn't even find her father's name. He did know that her mother passed while she was very young (Elizabeth Anne Morstan—cause of death unspecified) and that John was very much enthralled with her.  
And so Sherlock found himself scaling a large fence to the side of the yard (it was just dark enough that he wouldn't be noticed), silently scaling a large pine tree near a window that led to the dining room, slipping binoculars out of his bag, and watching.  
John and Mary were sat at a table inside, much larger than necessary for two people (the house was something of a mansion, after all), eating in silence (home-made food. Mary's cooking?). Sherlock turned his attention to the woman.  
Her hair was dark, pulled back into a loose bun. Green eyes. Something about her made Sherlock feel queasy—it could have been the makeup that made her look plastic-y and a bit too good to be true. Her face looked bizarrely familiar. She wore a little black dress, fitted tightly around her curves but not so much as to appear uncomfortable. Her fingernails were painted to match her lips, all smooth and precise and perfect.  
Sherlock then focused his attention to John. He had bags underneath his eyes, more prominent than when he was with Sherlock. His hair looked very military, as did his posture,but he hadn't returned to the war, no... This was something else. His cane was propped against the table where he'd set it down—limp returned. That much was easy enough. His shirt was ironed, most likely not his doing. Mary's then. He was living with her (221B remained empty, although Molly had said something about 221C being rented) and had a new job, seemed happy but... off. Something was off.   
Sherlock watched as the couple finished their meal, chatted for a bit, and Mary retreated into the living-room. Sherlock made his way down from the tree and found some hedges near a window which was, luckily for him, open. He crouched in them, listening intently for signs of movement.  
The sound of a mobile phone being flipped open. Click. A pause.  
“Hello, Sebby. … Yes. … Yes, he was taken care of. How is the Wellington case coming along? … Good.” Sherlock's mind raced. Sebby? Seb. Sebastian. Sebastian who? And Wellington... Where had he heard that name before?  
“Tomorrow, at... three? Good.” Another click. Some pacing, then footsteps leaving the room.  
Sherlock sat there for what seemed like hours (but, in reality, was only about fifteen minutes), thinking over his next move.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time.

The cafe that Sherlock followed Mary to was cozy, small, and very busy. Sherlock barely managed to get a seat at the little bar, too far away from Mary's table to hear. Luckily, he had come prepared. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he pulled out a small black device and a small strip of adhesive. He took a deep breath, and walked in the direction of Mary's table.  
As he was about to pass by, he fake-tripped on someone's foot.  
“Ah! Sorry, sorry. Oh, god, sorry,” he mumbled as he pulled himself up on Mary's table. During the commotion of people helping him up, he stuck the small device on the bottom of the table. He thanked the nearby customers, apologized again, and made off towards the wc.  
Once inside, Sherlock slipped a small reciever out of his pocket and plugged a set of earphones into it. He slipped this into his pocket again and stuck the buds into his ears. He could hear the bustling of the cafe in the distance, a bit fuzzy (due to the fact that he was in another room), and he could hear a waitress asking Mary if she would like anything to drink. “Just tea for now,” she said. “I'm waiting for somebody.”  
Sherlock slipped out of the wc and walked back to his spot to sit down. The static died down a bit and he ordered a cup of tea as well before he heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.  
Sherlock turned over his shoulder to see a strong looking man with a military haircut and a large scar on his cheek. Mary stood up to plant a small kiss on said scar, smiling brightly under her intense red lipstick.  
“Hello, Seb.”  
“Hello, boss.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sebastian Moran was never fond of Mary Moriarty. Something about her face made his stomach churn. The structure of her nose and jaw were similar to Jim's; combined with her intensely green eyes and the makeup and her fake, plastic-looking smile, she was an unsettling person to be around.  
He loved the way that Jim used to call him Sebby (although he never said a word about it), the way his fingers would trail across his cheek when they were talking, sending shivers down his spine, the whispery, sexy voice Jim used when he threatened to leave another scar, the way he looked at him when they talked about work, the way his lips felt against his own, and pretty much everything else about him. The only thing he wasn't fond of was his obsession with Sherlock Holmes. A part of him was extremely glad that this Holmes fellow was dead, but discovering Jim's body on the rooftop, as much as he hated to admit it, left him a bit emotionally traumatized. He had trouble letting go of the love that he had lost.  
He disliked the way that Mary called him 'Sebby,' the way she kissed the scar on his cheek, the way she looked at him while they talked about Joseph Wellington (his next target), or really anything about her. The only thing he appreciated her for was her ability to take on her brother's role in such short notice, and how her commands brought her back to the days before Jim and Sherlock took their lives.  
“So, dear, you've looked through the files I sent you?”  
“Twice.”  
“Got a plan?”  
“A few.”  
“Good, good... How about security threats. Have you been careful like I asked?”  
“You act like I'm new to this. And no, no security threats on my watch.”  
“Just being safe, hon.” Mary winked as she sipped from her tea. Her lipstick left a mark on the porcelain.  
“What about that John Watson that you're with? Isn't he a threat?”  
“Oh, him? No. He's clueless. I'm just using him to distract him from what we're doing.” Seb pressed his lips together in a firm line. The way she said “we” made him feel uncomfortable.  
“All right, then. I'd... better be going. I need to work on this case.”  
“Thank you, Sebby.” He tried to ignore the kiss that Mary blew as he quickly left the cafe.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stayed in the cafe until Mary had left, only returning to her table to retrieve the small microphone. He thought over what he heard. Security threats, files, boss, distractions...  
John. John was being used. This thought made Sherlock's stomach hurt.  
Being away from John was the most painful thing he had ever experienced. Watching from she shadows, only being able to communicate with Molly about how he's doing every month or so... Last year was when he had first heard of this Mary Morstan, but he thought she would disappear like all of the rest of them. The year before that, John had gone through so many girlfriends that it was hard to keep track of them.  
He was nearing the third year of separation, and with every minute it hurt more. He often contemplated just showing up in a busy bar, turning John around and planting a kiss on his lips before pulling away to watch the thoughts dance behind his eyes, but now that he was in love with Mary, that option seemed like it wouldn't be welcomed.   
He hadn't expected Mary to be, well... behind something. He had taken out all but one of the snipers that had been threatening to take the lives of his friends, one named “Moran.” Moriarty's power had crumbled, but it was already clear to him that Mary knew more than she let on, and that was enough reason to return from the dead.  
Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, took a deep breath, and sent a text to Molly. It was time to do something big.


	5. Chapter 5

When Molly arrived at the pub it was five after seven, but John didn't really mind. It was a bit bizarre to be invited out for a drink by Molly Hooper of all people, so when she grinned and sat down in the booth with him, it was all a little surreal.  
“You'll have to finish up that drink and then come back to my place. It's very important,” she squeaked in her mousy voice.  
“Wait, what? What's going on?”  
“Um, please don't ask questions. You'll find out soon enough.” John watched her as she nervously typed out a message on her phone. He finished his drink, paid the waitress, and then followed Molly out to her car.  
Molly's apartment was small and cozy, nestled on the third floor of a big building. She led him through the door, instructed him to take off his coat and sit down on the couch. He followed her instructions as she scurried into the kitchen, poured him a cup of coffee, and came back.  
“I'll be in the kitchen, if you two need me.”  
“Us... two?” John blinked. He was the only one in the room.  
Or, at least, he thought he was until he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a deep baritone voice.  
“Thanks, Molly.”  
John practically jumped off of the couch, turned around, fell to the ground and backed up at the sight of Sherlock Holmes.  
He had dyed his hair a shade lighter, and it was cut a bit shorter as well, but his eyes, his face, his curls, height, voice... Sherlock. Sherlock.  
“No, no. You're, you're dead, I saw you...” Blood splattered across the concrete. There was no faking it. No. Sherlock approached him, pulled him up by his arms and pulled him close to his body. His smell, oh god he smelled so real, felt so warm...  
“John, I'm sorry.”  
“I almost...” John could feel tears burning hot in his eyes. “I almost killed myself, Sherlock... I, no... Why would you do--”  
“To protect you.”  
“Protect me from who? How would throwing me into depression protect me?!”  
“They would have killed you if I hadn't jumped.”  
A beat. John felt the tears rolling down his face and into Sherlock's coat, but it didn't matter. Sherlock was all that mattered.  
He felt Sherlock's hand trace up his face, his thumb wiping away the tears on his cheek and tilting his head to look into his eyes.  
“Molly, would you mind going into your room for a bit?” His eyes were so blue, so real, and so intense that John felt a bit dizzy. But nothing could have prepared him for the kiss.  
Sherlock's lips were soft as they pressed against his own, and John was only partially conscious as he felt his own hand reaching up to wrap around Sherlock's neck and he kissed back, and all that he knew was that there were so many words that he needed to say and this kiss was ruining everything but something about it was so vital, so necessary, and he closed his eyes and melted into it because the kiss didn't eve feel romantic to him, it just felt powerful and meaningful and a bit bizarre, and it felt like Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.  
“Sherlock,” John mumbled softly after he had pulled away, and it was the last word that he spoke before fainting into his old flatmate's arms.


	6. Chapter 6

When John woke up again an hour later, he was greeted by a hand resting on his cheek and blue eyes softly watching him.  
“Sherlock...” For a moment, he had forgotten what happened, but it all came back to him in a flash—the pub, Molly, Sherlock, the kiss...  
The kiss. He had kissed with Sherlock Holmes and he enjoyed it.  
“You fainted.” Sherlock's thumb traced circles on John's cheek.  
“Did I?” Sherlock nodded slowly. Oh, god. He kissed me into unconsciousness, John thought to himself.  
“I know this is sudden, but we need to talk about something very important.”  
“And that is?”  
“You need to break it off with Mary.” John's eyes widened.  
“No,” he quickly and defensively responded. “No. If this is about that... that kiss, I got caught up in the moment. I love her, Sherlock.”  
“It's for your own safety. She's up to something and I don't like it.” John sat up from his lying position on Molly's couch.  
“Stop feeding me vague bullshit and tell me what you mean.” John could feel the tone of his voice getting snappier. A part of him didn't want to yell at Sherlock, but the other part didn't want to hear anything against Mary. He loved her. There was something about her that comforted him, that made him feel like he was at home.  
“She met with a man named Sebastian at a cafe at three this afternoon. I listened in on their conversation.” John froze, not saying another word as if keeping quiet and perfectly still could reverse what had just been said.   
“John, she's using you. For what, I don't know, but she said it. She's only with you to distract you from whatever shady business she and this Sebastian fellow have been doing.”  
John wanted to scream and shout and punch Sherlock and destroy the apartment that they were in, but he kept himself mostly calm as he stood up.  
“It's been three years, Sherlock. Do you really expect me to believe you when you tell me that my wife is shady and cheating on me? What do you think I'll say, 'Oh, Sherlock, I never would have known, now let's go make out in Molly's apartment?' Jesus Christ.” As he spoke, John felt the hot tears again. He walked over to the coat hanger, grabbed his jacket, and opened the door.   
“John.”  
“No.” He made sure to slam the door behind him before sinking to the ground and letting the tears flow down his cheeks.


	7. Chapter 7

Mary wasn't one to become attached to men, but Sebastian Moran was an exception.  
A soldier, like John, he was strong but dependent. Handsome, too. His face was deliciously structured, tough and angular and soft all at once. She could see why her brother had liked him.  
Thanks to Sebastian, Joseph Wellington would surely be dead by midnight, and she would be paid a meaningful sum by his wife after the fact.  
The only issue with him was that he was so attached to James. Every now and then he would look distracted, running his hand across the scar on his cheek, or he would say something about something that Jim would say, get uncomfortable when Mary called him Sebby... It broke her heart a bit—firstly because she wanted him to be happy, and also because she wanted him to get over it. He wasn't supposed to be so emotionally attached, he was a soldier that followed orders.   
If she had the heart, she would have him killed. But she knew she couldn't do that. She was too interested in him, and admittedly, he would be a difficult one to dispose of.  
She slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone. 7:56PM. No new messages. John would probably return home around 9, she thought. Those Scotland yard boys always kept him late.  
Mary flagged down a cab. She figured that she should return home, get the next file together for Sebastian. His next target would be Linda, Annika, and Johnathan Hope, the wife and children of a cab driver that Jim had worked with earlier on. It was their time to go.  
She stepped out of the cam, paid the cabbie, and started walking to her doorstep. The wind was cold against her skin and leaves rustled above her head. Autumn was her favourite season.  
On her doorstep was an envelope. She kneeled down and picked it up. On the front was written “Miss Moriarty.” Seb's handwriting. She smiled and opened it up, unfolding the lined piece of paper that rested inside.  
 _I'm sorry  
x Sebastian_  
Mary Moriarty had maybe half a second to think about it before she was shot in the head.


	8. Chapter 8

Sebastian Moran killed two people that night, neither of which were Joseph Wellington.  
From his perch in the large pine tree, he loaded his sniper rifle and aimed it towards the front doorstep of the Morstan residence. The white envelope was just barely visible on the concrete step, glowing under the porchlight.  
He should have stopped working three years ago. Jim's death should have been the end. He didn't think it would happen, almost thought that Sherlock wouldn't jump, thought he would get to shoot John Watson in the head, but everything changed.   
The pool of blood that had trailed from Jim's corpse, the absence of a pulse in his lips, the coldness of his corpse... Jim, oh Jim. Sebastian wished that he had ended it all right there. But he couldn't. He had to continue his work, for Jim's sake. He didn't want his lover's death to be for nothing.  
He heard a cab pulling up. Mary. She made him so angry. He wanted her dead from the very beginning, but it took three years to get up the courage to do it. He hated her, hater her flirtiness and her way of mimicking Jim and the fact that she really looked like him, her perfume and makeup and the way she walked and everything, just everything. Even the work was now starting to frustrate him. He needed to separate himself from the Moriarty family, and this was the only way to do it.  
Mary Elizabeth Moriarty picked up the note and opened the envelope.  
Sebastian Moran carefully aimed the crosshairs at the back of her head and fired a shot.  
A single tear made its way down his cheek as he pulled a handgun out of his bag. Jim was never coming back, and neither was Mary.  
This is it, he thought. There's only one person left to kill.  
He held the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.


	9. Chapter 9

After returning home, all teary-eyed, angry, and a bit heartbroken, the last thing that John Watson expected to see dead on his doorstep was Mary.  
He collapsed to his knees, an audible sob escaping his lips.  
The police arrived shortly, wrapping him in an orange blanket (he forced it away in a fit of fury—he couldn't think about anything related to Sherlock at the moment), and they recovered the bodies from the yard. The beefy-looking man that John had never seen in his life, and Mary. They said that he had shot her from up in the tree and then shot himself in the head shortly afterwards. John answered the questions in a quiet voice.  
Sherlock appeared at the crime scene about ten minutes later. John let him lead him back to a cab and they drove to a small hotel just outside of London in complete silence.  
It had started to rain by the time they got inside Sherlock's room, and John didn't fight back when Sherlock pulled him close and held him. His tears were wiped away and Sherlock let him cry and shout about the letter he had found and Sherlock explained what had happened as well as he could. But then they were silent and Sherlock looked into his eyes and then kissed him again, and it didn't feel right and John wanted to stop but he kissed back anyway because Sherlock tasted good and was a fantastic kisser and his hands were in his hair and then Sherlock was tugging at his clothes and it all went by so fast.  
“No,” John finally said in a choked voice when Sherlock's mouth pressed against his neck. Sherlock pulled away, allowing John to stumble to his feet. Sherlock's eyes followed him as John looked around the room.  
This wasn't right. None of it was. It was too sudden, and too soon, and he still loved Mary and Sherlock was coming on too strong. Everything hurt. Mary had lied to him, and so had Sherlock and he still didn't forgive him either.  
He saw the gun on the table near the door and knew what he had to do.  
“Close your eyes,” John said, watching Sherlock as he did what he was told. John walked over to the table, picked up Sherlock's gun in his hands, felt its weight.  
He stuck the barrel in his mouth and ended it.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock's opened his eyes just long enough to see John pull the trigger.  
This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't. He thought that John would come around, realize that Mary was evil, realize that Sherlock loved him more than Mary ever could.  
But no, there was John Watson, lying in a pool of his own blood.   
Sherlock stumbled to his feet and wandered towards John's body. He rolled him over onto his back, shakily reaching a hand out to close his eyelids.  
John Watson was so beautiful, even when he was bloody and dead on the floor of a cheap hotel.  
The police would show up soon. Someone must have heard the gunshot—Sherlock's ears were still ringing.  
His finger trailed over John's lips as he felt tears welling up. His other hand pried the gun out of John's dead fingers.   
Sherlock leaned down, cupping John's cheek in his hands, and planted one last kiss against his lips.  
“Thy lips are warm,” Sherlock whispered before he put the gun barrel in his own mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys. Sorry for killing all of the characters except for Molly.


End file.
